


The Initiation

by Andauril



Series: Tales of a Shadowscale [1]
Category: Elder Scrolls, Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim
Genre: Dark Brotherhood - Freeform, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-23
Updated: 2016-03-23
Packaged: 2018-05-28 14:25:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,850
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6332656
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Andauril/pseuds/Andauril
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Cheeava has been raised a Shadowscale since the age of nine. Now the time has come to proof his heart to the Dark Brotherhood.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Initiation

**4E 212**

I

His toes grew numb as he walked through the snow. Even the specially tailored shoes could not prevent it. The low hanging sun was reflected on the drifting ice of the bay and the cold, clear waters. It was quite a beautiful sight.

Cheeava tugged on his cloak to pull it tighter around his body and rubbed his hands together. The cold made his breath freeze in the air, forming a misty cold. Winter was close. He could smell it.

Not that it really made a difference that far north. Dawnstar only knew two seasons – cold and dry, and cold and wet. But snow fell across all of the year, and there were patches were it never melted. Even Windhelm hadn’t been quite as cold.

Sometimes he wondered if there was any place in all of Skyrim that wasn’t cold.

Ma had told him so, but he wasn’t sure if he believed it. He had never seen these ominous not-cold places and for all he knew, they could be nothing else than figments.

He lifted his tail as he dragged his freezing feet over to the far silhouettes of houses. There was no way he knew how to keep it warm, other than swallowing down a hot drink and he was already quite known at the Windpeak Inn. Usually he didn’t even have to say a single word for the innkeeper to know what he wanted.

As he dragged his feet through a mean snowdrift, he once again could not help but ask himself what had become of Sarille. It had been years since he last had seen her. A whispering suspicion of his was what Ma had something to do with it, but he had never dared saying it out loud …

Cheeava shook his head, chasing these thoughts away. It was years past.

He had almost made it to the first house when suddenly, the snow behind him scrunched.

Without thinking twice, he pulled a translucent dagger into his hand and whirled around, cowering down into a battle-ready stance. A low warning rumbled in his throat and he bared his teeth …

There was no one here, at least it looked that way. But he wasn’t fooled. A pair of footprints were pressed into the snow in front of him, and he was sure he hadn’t left them there.

“I wouldn’t go through with this, Cheeava. The Listener might not take kindly to her charge breaking the tenets.”

Cheeava lowered his bound dagger, but did nothing to dispel it.

“Very funny”, he hissed into the direction of his invisible stalker. “I could’ve stabbed you were you stand.”

“Oh, I very much doubt that.” The incorporeal voice sounded more than just a little bit amused.

Cheeava dispelled the dagger and crossed his arms in front of his chest. “I’m not a hatchling anymore. And you did give yourself away. That’s sloppy.”

“Oh yes, it would be if I had really tried to sneak up on you. But I was not.” Cheeava couldn’t see it, but he was sure his invisible stalker shrugged. “I’ve been looking for you, Cheeava.”

“I’m not cleaning your room for you.”

“Good for you that that isn’t why I’m looking for you, then. No … The Listener wants to see you. In person.”

Cheeava looked above his shoulder, over to the small town behind him that moments before had promised him a hot drink and a warm meal. It looked like that would need to wait. He wasn’t stupid enough to keep her waiting. If she wanted to see someone, it usually meant _immediately._

“I’m on the way.”

 

II

At least the Sanctuary was warm.

Cheeava didn’t waste time. He hurried through the gloomy corridors of what had been his home for the last ten years, and ignored the faces and eyes that followed him on his way. He could still talk later.

He found the Listener, unsurprisingly, on the alcove that held the Night Mother’s sarcophagus. At the moment it was closed, and he could not see a glimpse of the old mummy held within. She only opened it when the Night Mother spoke to her, keeping it safely hidden otherwise.

Others might have felt unease in the presence of the Listener herself, but not him.

He straightened his neck, back and tail as he approached her.

Her cheeks were more sunken than last he’d seen her, and her ashen skin was almost transparent, revealing snaking dark veins around her red bloodshed eyes. He never had paid much mind to the fact that she was a vampire, but at the moment, it was hard to overlook.

She looked … hungry.

“You asked for me, Ma?”

Her brows furrowed into a disapproving frown. “I didn’t ask for you as your mentor, Cheeava.”

Something about how she said it compelled him to keep his mouth shut and listen. Her red eyes seemed to pierce right into him, and he had trouble holding her gaze. No, she was right. This time she wasn’t the Dunmer who had picked him up ten years ago and practically raised him. She was the Listener.

“The day has come. You have the skills and the weapons of a killer, initiate, but today we will see if you also have the heart. There is nothing I can teach you anymore. Today you will walk towards your first victim and, so Sithis wills it, you will return with your blade bathed in their blood.” One of her hands disappeared in the depths of her dark robes and when she pulled it out, her fingers were clasped around a sharp dagger’s hilt. “Take this. It is the Blade of Woe, and it craves for its first bloodshed.”

He opened his mouth to protest – he hadn’t honed his magicka for years to use a blade like this on his victims, not when he could summon one that would do just as well, if not better – but she raised a hand, silencing him with a stern stare.

“I know. But after your initiation, you will be free to use any weapon you desire.”

Cheeava grinded his teeth. If it was so important he used this blade, he would. As long as he could use his bound daggers the next time.

He held out his hand, taking the Blade of Woe from Lledana Hladu’s fingers and fastened it to his belt.

“So … who’s my first target and where do I need to go?”

“Eager, are you?” A faint glint appeared in her eyes, lighting them up for a brief moment, and the corners of her lips twitched up. “Your target lives a day away. They have claimed a small hut their home and reside there. You should find it easily when following the road to Morthal. Kill the victim with the Blade of Woe and return once you have done so.”

“What if I fail?” He didn’t believe he would. To kill a hermit in a hut sounded easy enough. Not much of a challenge, but he doubted that was the point of all of this. It was about proofing his heart, not his skills.

“Sithis demands he be given a soul, and a soul he will get.”

Cheeava swallowed. That was … He knew her well enough to know she wasn’t joking. She had raised him since the age of nine. She had personally seen to it that he received the best of training, had even taught him conjuration magic himself. More than once he had seen her smile upon him for a moment. She had been a mother after his parents had died.

But he knew she wouldn’t hesitate to offer his soul to Sithis if he failed. He had been raised to be a part of the Brotherhood, but he had to earn his place, like everyone else. And as the Listener, she wasn’t bound by the Tenets in the same way the others were.

“I won’t disappoint you … Listener.”

If he failed, there would be no second chance.

 

III

It was noon the next day when finally, he saw the small hut to the side of the road. A wisp of smoke trailed from its roof up to the clear skies, and the wooden beams that made its walls looked sturdy enough, but roughly made.

Cheeava quickened his steps. In the depths of his cloak he felt for the hidden dagger strapped to his side. It pressed against his thigh, cold and bloodthirsty. He run his thumb across its hilt.

The hut had only a door and now windows. He tried peering through the door crack but saw nothing. But the wood felt a little warm when he pressed his hands on it.

He tugged his cloak around his frame to hide the Blade of Woe and knocked his knuckles against the door. After the third knock, the door suddenly cracked open far enough to reveal an ashen face and a pair of slanted dark red eyes. A Dunmer.

“What do you want?”

“I was on the way to Dawnstar but the cold makes my scales freeze over.”

The Dunmer raised a blonde brow. “Dawnstar, hm? I wouldn’t bother. I’ve lived there for a time, it’s even colder than it’s here. Must be the sea.”

“It is urgent. Please …” He pressed, trying his best to sound miserable. “Only a short rest in your house to warm me. I almost forgot how heat feels on my scales.”

The Dunmer stood in the door crack for a while, before her brow finally eased and she stepped aside.

“Alright. The cold can be relentless.”

Cheeava gave her a thankful smile and followed her inside. A cozy fire warmed the hut, and a couple of wolf-pelts covered the floor. His boots left a bit of snow on them.

There was only a steaming pot above the fire and simple cot inside. A number of dead animals hung from the ceiling by the fire – rabbits, mostly. A poor and simple life. This Dunmer woman was probably welcome nowhere else.

No one would miss her when he plunged the blade into her heart.

She had his back turned to him and downed a wooden spoon into the pot by the fire, filling a simple bowl with steaming stew. He could end her life just now and she would never know what happened.

His thumb graced the Blade of Woe once more.

No. He wanted her to look at him when she realized she had invited Death into her home. It would be an anonymous and easy kill if he murdered her right now. A kill performed by a simple thug, and he was more than that.

The Dunmer returned from the fire, hands closed around the steaming bowl.

“Here. I have enough.” A wry smile tugged at the corners of her mouth. “That should warm.”

Cheeava took the bowl from her, sniffing at it. It smelled normal, and a bit bland. He could see chunks of meat swimming in it, and what looked like chopped potatoes and lattice.

He plunged the wooden spoon into the hot soup and licked a bit from it. It didn’t taste too bad, if you ignored that it lacked spices. At least it was warm and drove the cold from him.

“You know, you remind me of someone I knew once”, he heard the Dunmer woman say and looked up. “He was Argonian, like you. He licked the spoon just like you do. As though he’d be afraid someone had poisoned his food.”

Cheeava almost dropped his bowl.

Could it be? But no. No. It was coincidence. He wouldn’t be that kind of person. He had been trained and raised to kill, but they couldn’t possibly ask of him … His claws dug into the bowl and he shoved another big spoonful down his throat.

The Dunmer woman watched him intendly. She was young, he noticed. Not even a true woman yet, as her face still hadn’t lost the last traces of childish fullness. She looked like she had just began to be an adult. He hadn’t noticed before, with her shrewd eyes and wry smile that had made her older looking, but now, that she relaxed …

The age was just right.

He almost bit the spoon in halves, and his sharp teeth left impressions in the wood.

“Are you fine? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.” She brushed a strand of blonde hair from her brow. For a moment, she twirled it around her finger, as if in thought, just like …

“What’s your name?” Cheeava rasped, the hot steaming bowl in his hand almost forgotten.

She blinked in surprise. “Sarille Morath. Why do you …” She paused, stared, her red eyes widened in sudden realization. “Cheeava?”

He nodded, and suddenly felt all the new won warmth leave him until all he could feel was a relentless icy chill that crept down his spin to his tail tip and down to the claws of his feet.

The excited smile that spread across her face and made her eyes light up made him want to vomit. If she knew … if she only knew why he had knocked onto her door, it would fade, just as easily as he could plunge the blade into her unsuspecting heart.

But he couldn’t do it. Should Sithis have his soul instead, if it only meant that he wouldn’t have to kill his only friend.

All these thoughts were chased away as suddenly Sarrile had wrapped him into a tight embrace, her blonde hair ticking his scales. He padded her back, helplessly, happier than he ought to have been.  

“You know what? Stay here until tomorrow. I’ve always got room for an old friend.” She pulled back, grinning widely, white teeth flashing in the firelight, eyes sparkling. “You must tell me all that you’ve seen in the last years.”

“I’d be happy too.”

 

IV

Cheeava stared at the fire. Not far from him, he could hear the even breathing of Sarille, sleeping soundly in her cot.

She’d suggested he sleep in it, but he had declined. The wolf pelts in front of the fire place would be just as comfortable.

But his mind couldn’t find rest.

He twisted and turned the Blade of Woe between his fingers. Fire reflected on its grind, cast flickering reflections across the room.

Across Sarille’s sleeping face. She looked like the child he remembered in her rest.

He had thrown snow balls at her until she screamed and begged him, laughing and breathlessly, to stop. She had teased him that he never would dare to swim in the cold waters of the Dawnstar bay, and he had thrust himself howling into them, even though it had made his scales writhe. They had stolen sweetrolls from the baker to eat them behind the house, grinning. At night, they had counted the stars in the sky and spun stories about what they saw above.

He pushed himself to his feet and walked over to her cot.

The blade he held low when he shook her awake.

Her eyes blinked open. Confusion painted her face.

“Cheeava? Why aren’t you sleeping?”

His fingers clasped around the virgin blade tightly, so tightly it rubbed against the fine scales of his palm, piercing through.

“You will soon be sleeping forever, my friend.”

“What …?”

Her eyes became wide and round, and all blood drained from her ashen face until it was white and pale as the snow.

“Why …?” Her words had no longer a voice.

“Sithis demands he be given a soul, and a soul he will get”, he repeated the words the Listener had said to him over a day ago, and drove the blade into her throat.

The chilling cold returned and settled in his chest. He watched Sarille go limb, her eyes still open and wide in shock.

A test of heart, and now he knew why.

 

V

Lledana Hladu awaited him at the entrance of the Sanctuary, her eyes glinting with satisfaction, and barely hidden pride.

“I see you return with blood on your hands and your blade, Dark Brother.” She didn’t fuss around, but handed him over a set of feather light leather garments. He had worn something similar, but without the enchantment that made the Shrouded Armor what it was.

He took it from her and bowed his head.

“You asked me to kill, and I did.”

“I had no doubts.”

He kept his mouth shut and didn’t tell her about his own, about the hours of hesitation, of blissful acceptance that his would be the soul offered to Sithis. It didn’t matter any longer. What mattered was that he had shed the blood of his only friend. Like she no doubt had always intended.

“Listener …” He swallowed. “Was there ever a contract on Sarille Morath’s life?”

She didn’t answer, but her silence spoke for itself.

What better test of his loyalty to her and the Brotherhood could there be than commanding him to kill the one person who had tied him to the world outside? Now he had truly no one else.

He only had one family now.

 


End file.
